A Small Sacrifice
by KeepingFilmAlive
Summary: John endures mild brain trauma after shielding Sherlock in a car accident. A little speech impairment results in his limp returning and taking his aggressions out on his other half by distancing himself. Sherlock does everything he can to get his John back.
1. Chapter 1

Title: A Small Sacrifice Pt. 1

Pairing: Sherlock and John

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Rated: T

Notes: The brain damage/speech impairment I use in this fic is based off of something one of my old teacher's brothers went through. He was in a car accident several years ago and what happens to John in the following story is exactly what happened to him (minus the limp). Reviews are love!

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He blames himself for it every day. Guilt was not a thing he ever experienced, guilt was just another useless human emotion that does nothing to fix what has happened, but what he felt now was heavier than any ghost of pain or remorse he's ever endured. It was a lead weight on his chest. It was a constant scratching in the furthest corners of his mind. It was his hands trembling when John refused to speak to him at all for days on end. It was a gasp of frustration when John pulled his old cane out again. It was a fist to the wall and a poorly suppressed groan when John started sleeping in his old room again.

Sherlock Holmes blames himself for it every day.

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"We could have just taken the tube, but no- nooo, Sherlock Holmes, prized wanker of London, England, wanted to take a bloody cabbie all the way out here because the tube would have been _too_ fast and he needed time to think. What? Getting a little slow up there, are we? The cogs not as greased up as they used to be?" John had been stunningly silent for the last forty minutes or so, they both knew he'd been ready to blow at any moment. Sherlock has been playing games with him lately, testing his patience to the best of his unmatched ability.

"If you're quite done trying to get me flustered in offense, I am very busy." Sherlock never removed his eyes from the world passing outside the window.

"Oh, clearly, what's wrong with me? How could I not have noticed you so fervently _staring out the bloody window_?" Sherlock sighed dramatically, heaving his shoulders and rolling his eyes. The hand that was closest to John was casually extended without any other form of acknowledgment.

"John, would you like to hold my hand? That usually calms your nerves, which appear to currently be on some form of steroids." Very proud that he is containing a wicked smirk at the moment, Sherlock taunted and got the exact reaction he'd hoped for. John was so adorable when he got angry over silly things.

"Steroids!? Ha- okay, you kn- well maybe if someone hadn't pulled me from working three shifts this past week and cut my check short this month, I wouldn't be so pissy over the bills, which, by the way, now you have to help cover because I can't because of you!" John's voice shot up an octave towards the end, not taking a single breath during that little rant. Sherlock dropped his hand with a soft thud and gave John a disappointed look. He honestly doesn't understand the concept of quitting.

"You and your middle class worries. You know money isn't an issue. It's fine. You're upset about something else."

"Oh, I'm upset about a lot of things, Sherlly." John crossed his arms and Sherlock sneered at the name. The conversation dropped right then because both men knew the issue was a private one and they didn't want, well, John didn't want the cabbie listening to them talking about their love life. It'd been a tad chaotic as of late. Sherlock was right about one thing though, holding his hand did calm his nerves, and as much as he didn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction, the temptation of overwhelming ease was too much to pass up.

John glanced down at Sherlock's hand resting still between them. His own hand began to move to grab it, just as his eyes began to move up to watch Sherlock, and everything froze. In what was now the fourth most incredibly important split second of his life, the first being the shot to the shoulder, the second being Sherlock falling, the third being Sherlock at the door three years later, John had managed to notice the family sized van speeding right at them. More specifically, at Sherlock.

To John's irritation-gone-content, Sherlock doesn't wear his belt in cabbies. In such a short time, because of this, the fight-or-flight action he had picked up from the military saved his Sherlock's life. Hand already moving, redirected to his belt buckle, unlatched, belt zips back across his chest, he leans forward while yanking Sherlock down to the seat cushion by a fist full of hair, and he lunges to cover the other man with his body, his head taking the initial impact.

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John wakes up two weeks later.

Sherlock is asleep at his side and a heaping mess of ungroomed and malnourished.

Cards and flowers litter the hospital room.

John slithers his hand out of Sherlock's grip and rubs his fingers against scalp through the tangle of curls.

John goes back to sleep.

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The next time he wakes up, Sherlock is sitting up and staring at him with a plate of food in his hands, untouched. He cleared his throat and moved to prop up on his elbows.

"When was the last time you ate, love?" John's voice was course, his question was followed with a coughing fit and a dry swallow.

"Irrelevant." Sherlock lifted the plate as an offering to John with one hand and picked up the glass of water with the other, holding them out evenly. Sherlock's face remained stone, though it was hard to tell with all the facial hair. It wasn't incredibly thick or long, but it was unkempt and Sherlock never really grew much facial hair to begin with. John always considered it low testosterone, but with that damn voice and the size of his… Well… It wasn't the testosterone levels…

"I'm not eating until I see you eat something. I know how you are."

"Ah, um, see, there's the problem." John turned his head towards the familiar voice. Greg stepped up from his chair, stretching with a yawn, clearly waking up from a nap. John hadn't noticed him. "He's not going to eat until you eat, John. Mycroft had to blackmail him to eat what little he has in the time you were out." John smiled, he wasn't happy that Sherlock was starving himself for John, he just found it… Endearing… In Sherlock's special way.

"Well then," John attempted to sit up with Lestrade's aide and gladly took the plate and water from Sherlock's hands. His own were shaking slightly, he knew he'd been out for a while, just wasn't sure how long. After a long gulp of water, he lowered the cup, "while I'm eating, you won't mind if I as-" John paused and furrowed his brows, "uh, I mean I've got some…" Immediately, Sherlock's eyes squinted a fraction and John could practically hear the wheels turning. "How long was I out?" Greg pulled up a chair to the other side of the bed.

"Twelve days. Had us worried for a bit. Hit your noggin pretty hard, the doctors anticipated some kind of brain trauma. How ya' feelin'?" Sherlock scoffed and leaned back in his chair.

"Don't be daft, you don't feel brain damage, Lestrade." Sherlock's voice was humorless, as per usual, but at the same time it had a bit of a detached ring to it. His mind was already whirring like an old computer being overworked and it was plain as day in his voice. John swallowed a bite of food and chuckled.

"Would explain your heada- uh- the migraines around Anderson, though." Sherlock shot a pointed look at John again, even though the injured man continued laughing along with Greg. "So how about the people in the van? Was anyone harmed?"

"Luckily, no. Couple of scratches, nothing big. They're all fine. They left you those flowers and a card with their insurance information. Doesn't say nothin' else except 'Sorry'." John rolled his eyes and took another bite.

"Lovely. And the… the- uhhh… the driver… is he o… alright, I mean, is he alright?" Greg gave a glace to Sherlock who had gone completely silent by this point. Clearly the man was seeing something that they weren't.

"Uh, no, no he's fine too. Just fine- Sherlock? What is it?" John turned to his partner and placed the fork gently on the plate, giving his full attention.

"Sherlo…" His eyes darted away for a moment and then returned reluctantly to the piercing gaze. Just before Sherlock opened his mouth, his eyes winced just a fraction, as if he understood something he didn't want to suddenly.

"Ask, questions, headache, cabbie, okay, and Sherlock. What do they all have in common, John?" Greg squinted hard in thought, making that ugly face he does when his brain is hard at work. John simply looked down at his plate and blankets for a moment before shaking his head and looking back up to Sherlock.

"I don't know."

"I need you to repeat some words after me." Sherlock stood and began pacing in the small space they had, ignoring John's incredulous gaze. "Humor me. Lock." John sighed heavily and rubbed his temple out of frustration.

"Fine, lo-uhh… l… lo-" His hand moved away from his head and he stared at it like he couldn't believe himself.

"Vehicle."

"Vehi-" John paused again and stared at the wall in front of him. His jaw working to find the right sound, but nothing coming out… "Ve… what?" he whispered to himself under his breath.

"Quit."

John pressed both of his hands flat over his face breathing deeply, trying to remain calm as it slowly all came together.

"Killing. Quietly. Cat. Chemicals. Crystalline. Chimney…" Greg slipped his hand over John's shoulder when a quiet sob let out. John's hands pulled away from his face and were held out in confusion.

"I don't know… I don't know _how_, Sherlo… I don't understand. Oh, God… _Oh, God_… This… This isn't happening. This shouldn't be happening!" Greg leaned in to give John a proper hug.

"Jo-"

"Oh, calm down, John. Panicking won't fix what's been done." Sherlock stepped back up to the bed and bent over, gripping the railing for support.

"Sherlock! Give the man a break!" Greg shot a nasty glare to the man opposite of him and removed the plate from John's lap.

"The solution is simple enough, Lestrade! John, you are a doctor. You've seen this happen before. What do you tell your patients when they've received brain damage and are now speech impaired?" The D.I. let go of John and waited patiently for the doctor to collect himself. John took three deep breaths and closed his eyes.

"I'd tell them… I'd tell them to pra-"

"Practice daily-"

"Right… until it be-"

"Becomes natural again, yes?" John nodded quietly and sniffled. Was it going to be like this from now on? Sherlock filling in his sentences for him every other word? "So what are we going to do, Dr. Watson?"

"You'll try to help me, go over several words, get bored and frustrated and have miss Hudson do it for you while you run around London hunting down bad guys." He really hadn't meant to say those things. Really. Sherlock looked hurt for a moment, and John immediately regretted the words. But only John could tell of course, see the offence land it's sting the moment before Sherlock stood straight. After everything they'd been through, how could John possibly think that little of his devotion to his better half? Aside from the times that he's left John behind at a crime scene without a word or disappeared for days at a time without telling John where he was or what he was doing. But Sherlock would do anything for John, anything to help him in a time of need, anything to keep his John happy and not leave him hanging on a thread. He would never do that.

"That's-" Lestrade's phone went off before Sherlock could go any further. After answering and giving a few grunts and noises of understanding, he pockets the phone and pats John on the back.

"Looks like I need to head off, mate. Don't you worry about a thing, okay? Just give it some time, you'll be back to normal before you know it. And Sherlock, you heard what security said, if they find you in here after visiting hours and have to call me again, you're banned for good. I will put you back in the cell for the night again if I have to." John tried to suppress a chuckle and failed horribly. Greg waved off and walked out, leaving the room in silence. Sherlock sat back down and kept his gaze out the window across the room. John sighed heavily and palmed at his eyes.

"I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't leave me li-… that way… I know you wouldn't." Sherlock hummed and fiddled with his fingers, eyes still out the window. "You don't… I mean… I'm worried, I'm terrified that this will be permanent. When it's the brain, you just never know. What if it stays? What if we… What if I…" A large hand rested gently on his own in his lap, fingers curling loosely around his.

"It will be fine. You will be just fine, John. I promise."

"You don't do promises."

"Well I've changed quite a bit in these past two weeks." John didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't say anything at all. He just held on to Sherlock's hand and let the overwhelming ease take over, washing away the fear and stress of this new disability.

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Sherlock Holmes blamed himself for it every day.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: A Small Sacrifice Pt. 2

Pairing: Sherlock and John

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Rated: T

Notes: Sorry this chapter is a tad short. I've been busy. Enjoy the angst, my darlings!

Edit: Honest human error! I let John say something he was technically not able to say, but it was fixed! I was being bugged by my roommate last night, so please, if you see any other errors, let me know! I've reread it several times and haven't spotted anything else so far...

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"This would be so much easier if you weren't speech impaired." Sherlock sighed and flicked the flash card down on the floor. John didn't know if he should scoff or laugh, so he combined them and rolled with what came out.

"Wow, really? You thin…" Sherlock gave a sideways glance, nibbling on his fingernail in frustration. It's become a habit as of late. "Thin…"

"Come on." John's jaw worked, he slid the back of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and let it fall a few times as Sherlock had explained and demonstrated several days ago. They had found that the only syllable he could not produce was that of a "kah" sound. Naturally, any word that started with or possessed a C, K, Q, and sometimes X was next to impossible to spit out. What it boiled down to was that the part of his brain that pertained to speech had received the blunt of the impact. All knowledge of the sound of "kah", how to produce it and what it sounded like, had completely vanished and needed to be relearned. So, the doctor and the consulting detective sit here in their fifth day of practice, frustrated and confounded and not willing to back down. They have a rule now, too: If John Watson begins a word, or intends to use a certain word with "the sound" in it, he must finish the sentence without replacing the word unless absolutely necessary. Which… Unfortunately, was the most case. And what was more unfortunate: John's had just about enough.

"I _hate_ this, you know? Witty banter is even totally out of the idea." John rubbed at his temples, his face growing red and crooked in irritation. "I'm- I'm tired of having to tip-toe around the damn syllable, reword _every_ little thing I say so I don't stutter and stop mid-sentence to endure the most- th- the most awful unbearable silences I've ever had around other people! I mean- I just- _God_, I might as well stop verbalizing all together! I'll bloody learn sign language if I have to! It's not _happening_, nothing we've gone over is _staying_!" Sherlock propped his elbow against the kitchen table, chin resting on his knuckles.

"You just went on an entire rant without needing to use the syllable once."

"And it's driving me insane!" John threw his hands out as if to emphasize the insanity part. "I wasn't even able to say your name when we made love after I was released from the hospital. Do you know how deeply that… I mean that's just absurd! I want to say your name, that's all I want! Why is that too-" It didn't take much for John to shut down since the accident. Sherlock knew the signs by heart now.

=Brows furrowed stiffly

=Hand in the general area of his mouth

=Face turning red

=Voice slowly rises in volume and becomes shaky

=Hands start to tremble

=Hands fidget to cover trembling

=Stops talking completely

=Holds head with both hands (not crying) keeping face down and out of sight

When John shuts down, Sherlock is lost. His John is hurt, his John is losing control over himself, his John is unhappy and angry and frustrated, his John is silent and won't speak to him or laugh, his John won't look at him, and worst of all, his John stops all physical contact. Sherlock had learned that he disliked his John shutting down quite a bit and makes sure to jump in and stop the shutting down before it is too late.

Sherlock stood abruptly from his chair, the wretched sound of wood screeching against the floor unfazing to the doctor who slowly dipped his head down. The taller managed to squeeze in and kneel down between John and the table with the angle he was positioned in relation to the table itself. Large hands tentatively rested on John's knees and slid up his thighs. One rested calmly on his hip, fingers pulling at the hem of his jumper, while the other lifted to the back of John's neck to pull him closer. John sighed and let his head fall carelessly against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Breathe, John. Deep breaths."

John closed his eyes.

Sherlock was holding him firmly, but gently, and let his fingers rub and twist at the short blonde hair at the top of John's neck. He'd had much practice in the arts of comforting his John recently. It wasn't perfect, but it was close.

John did his best to focus on Sherlock.

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,_ fuck_ he just wanted to say his name. _Breathe_.

Sherlock was warm and firm and strong and tall and majestic and brilliant and quite honestly the best hugger John's ever had the privilege of hugging. John turned his face slightly into the skin of Sherlock's neck. It was so soft right there, so pale._ Breathe_. He loved the smell of Sherlock's skin, most of the time anyway, not so much after smelly experiments. Then again, he's been taking daily showers since the accident for John's sake. He's also been eating regularly. And sleeping. Sherlock's actually been sleeping in bed with him every night since they've returned home. John opens his eyes. _Breathe_. Sherlock's hair is tickling his eyebrow and forehead. There's a freckle on his neck just beneath his jawline. His eyes are closed. He's so beautiful.

And John is damaged goods. _Breathe_.

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"Mrs. Hudson, where is John?" Sherlock had arrived back from Tesco not even a minute ago and there was no sign of John what so ever in the flat. No clues as to where he could be, no notes lying about, nothing in the mail, the bedroom was empty, John's old room was empty, the thin layer of dust on John's laptop hadn't been disturbed, so no emails, and the bathroom door was cracked open with the light off, so he wasn't in there. There was nothing. Oh, and John had stopped speaking completely, as promised, two days prior, so he didn't have anything to go off of there either.

"He never left, I've been home all day, he hasn't come down once. Never heard the door open or close either. Did you check the loo?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Did I check the loo? Are you even listening to yourself? Of course I checked the loo, the door was ajar and the lights were off. He had to have left. He's not here. You're certain you heard nothing?" Mrs. Hudson scoffed and placed her hands on her hips like the sassy little old lady she was.

"You were hardly gone for thirty minutes, Sherlock. There was a bit of shuffling about upstairs after you had left, but it was completely silent the whole while you were gone. He's still up there,_ you're_ just getting rusty." With that, she tilted her chin up haughtily and walked away. Ignoring the old bat's attitude, Sherlock took a moment to process the information he was given. If John hadn't left and has been completely still in the twenty six minutes that Sherlock's been out, if John was not in their bedroom, his old bedroom, the kitchen, the loo, or the sitting room, the only option remains that he'd been abducted somehow without Mrs. Hudson hearing a thing. As old as the woman is, her hearing is much better than he and John agreeably would like it to be, so abduction is out of the question. Processing, processing, processing…

"I can't have…" Sherlock looked back up the stairs in the contemplation that he had made an error in the most basic of observation. Slowly, he makes his way back up the stairs. He walks to just before the bathroom doorway and pauses, giving it a quizzical look. He takes another step and gently pushes the door open with his knuckles, flipping on the light with his other hand. His gaze immediately falls to John sitting on the floor, arms folded over propped up knees, back against the wall, eyes straight ahead to the cabinet before him. Sherlock says nothing. John says nothing.

Several moments fleets by before the doctor finally sighs and pushes himself up, brushing himself off calmly. Sherlock notes as John avoids all contact on his way out that there is the lightest limp in his step.

Sherlock's blank expression falters slightly when he finally feels it. The guilt. Something completely foreign to him. A pain that doesn't actually physically hurt.

John won't touch him or talk to him, John won't even look at him, John's even going so far as to hide from him in plain sight.

And it hits him.

John blames Sherlock.

John blames Sherlock and John hates Sherlock.

And if John blames Sherlock and John hates Sherlock, then Sherlock blames Sherlock and Sherlock hates Sherlock.

Sherlock is the reason John is hurt. Sherlock is the reason John won't speak. Sherlock is the reason John is suffering. Sherlock's sole purpose is to protect John no matter what and Sherlock failed John.

And Sherlock is damaged goods. _Breathe._

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_A good point was made that the 'kah' and 'gah' sound are produced in very similar ways, so if John cannot use K, C, Q, or X, then he should not be able to use G. This is all very true, but keep in mind, as I mentioned in the notes on the first chapter, this is all based off of the experience of a living human. This man absolutely could not produce the 'kah' sound for the life of him, 'gah' and 'ch' were, for some reason, not a problem for him what so ever. Also, as a side note, the only reason it's so difficult for John to relearn it all when it shouldn't be that much of a problem is because the brain is a very fragile, mysterious thing. The blunt of the force from the accident damaged the speech area of his brain and knocked a syllable completely out of existence, and as I will come full circle to in the next chapter, because of this brain trauma, he is also incapable of relearning the syllable at the normal rate, if at all. See, I never found out if the man was able to relearn it all, so honestly... **John's future is my fuck toy and I intend to use it,**_** lawllawllawllawlz.**


	3. Chapter 3

Title: A Small Sacrifice Pt. 3

Pairing: Sherlock and John

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Rated: T

Notes: I. AM. SO. SORRY. My new job is draining me dry, I haven't had the mojo for updating in so long. Please forgive me guys! I'm afraid this chapter may not be that well written, I'm so tired. I'll go through it again later and fix stuff up.

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This guilt thing… Regret, remorse, shame, self-depreciation… Something completely foreign and new, something that leaves him baffled and speechless, something that hurts physically when there is nothing tangible about it. He absolutely, to the core, _loathed_ this feeling.

It has been eighteen days since the accident, thirteen days since John has been released from the hospital, eight days since John has given up lessons completely, and four days since the last time a full word aside from 'yes', 'no', 'sorry', and 'ta' has left John's lips. Sherlock doesn't bother with experiments or cases anymore, mostly because he can't concentrate when his John is acting this way, partly because his hands have been trembling out of frustration since the second day John stopped talking to him. All John did was mozie about the flat in silence, read, go through emails, watch the telly, eat, and nap on the couch. Everything he did had such a slow, eerie calmness to it, a sense of defeat almost. When Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, or a possible new client showed up (only to be turned down right away, no matter how interesting the case), John would hide away in their bedroom. Sherlock was silently thankful that he could at least keep that, John willingly staying in the bedroom with him. It was the only time John wasn't totally avoiding physical contact with him.

John had moved into Sherlock's bedroom several months ago, Sherlock had never been so compliant to sleep's pestering beckoning until he had a Watson waiting for him nightly in bed. Waiting, smiling, eager to place his hands and lips anywhere on Sherlock's body that he desired whether it be out of lust or need of innocent intimacy. The pre-John Sherlock would have been disgusted at how sentimental it was for post-John Sherlock to be longing for those nights again so badly. Now… Well, now John was just there, eyes avoiding, back turned, he didn't even lean into any of Sherlock's touches.

Sherlock would never admit it so blatantly, normally he just tells John that he is not most people, but what he means is that no matter how hard he tries, he can never predict what John will do next, how John will respond to something, which laugh John use (he has so many and Sherlock loves every one of them)… So of course, it's only natural that John's general air of 'giving up' had completely thrown him off the wall. The fact that John had given up after only five days of lessons, they weren't that unbearable… were they?

In the end, Sherlock concludes that John is a doctor and doctors, especially ex-army doctors, have seen what all can happen when you get hit a tad too hard on the noggin. John has seen this many times and he has seen how a good ninety-four percent of the brain trauma victims have had no progress in fixing what has been damaged. He knew his odds, he knew that if it doesn't come back on its own, it never will, and he knew that trying to re-learn it all would be futile.

This is why John gave up so easily.

Because he knows.

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Sherlock's phone rings, he doesn't need to look at it to figure out who it is. Lestrade's been buggering him to help on a specific case that at any other point, Sherlock would have leapt on.

Sherlock's phone rings again, this is the sixth call today alone. Sherlock shuts his phone off and tosses it on the coffee table from the couch, bringing his focus back to his laptop. John sits in his chair reading the newspaper.

Several moments of silence pass, this is common, until John finally folds the paper up neatly and places it on the pile at his feet. Green grey eyes land on him and watch him carefully at a distance as he stands from his chair and heads for the door, limp a little less slight than it was a few days ago. At first, it was barely there, only Sherlock could have pointed it out, but Mrs. Hudson decided to comment on it the other day as he was walking to the bedroom to avoid her. That didn't go over well. At least not for Sherlock.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock begins to panic internally, he knows John blames him, he knows John is punishing him, but where on Earth could this recent mute/shut in be going all of a sudden?

John doesn't answer, of course, and makes his way downstairs. Sherlock swallows hard after the door had shut and he was alone. He looks at the phone, and he can't take it anymore.

:

Sherlock's phone rings, he doesn't need to ask to know who it is. Greg's been buggering him to help on a specific case that at any other point, Sherlock would have leapt on. John wishes he would take it, he'd feel less like he was holding the detective back. He hasn't taken a single case or done any experiments what so ever since the accident. It crushed John really.

Sherlock's phone rings again, this is the sixth call today, nineteen in the past three days all together. John hears Sherlock's begrudged sigh and the shut off tone to his phone before a loud clutter on the coffee table. He doesn't bother looking over the newspaper. He wants Sherlock to take the case, he doesn't want to hold his partner back, but the idiot won't take a hint. He's kept himself as distant as he can, John honestly didn't expect Sherlock to last this long, but here he is, still by his side. Sherlock probably hates him for giving up so easily. Being a doctor, especially an army doctor in Afghanistan, you see enough head injuries and brain damage to know your odds in the healing process. The brain is a very fragile… bipolar thing. He could wake up in the middle of the night tonight and remember all of it, he could be eating soup years from now and suddenly remember all of it, he could also very well never remember any of it again. Sherlock knows this just as much as John and John knows Sherlock knows this just as much as John. Sherlock probably blames him for getting the brain damage in the first place. Sherlock probably hates him for ruining what they had going, something so perfect. Sherlock probably…

Suddenly, John is craving Italian food. Baked Ziti sounds wonderful right now. Sure does.

John folds his paper neatly and places it down by his feet, he can feel those green greys on him already as he gets to his feet. Walking towards the door, the damned voice piped up behind him.

"Where are you going?" The question is almost answered. Almost, but no. John ignores the voice and leaves the building.

:

It's four in the morning. Sherlock steps cautiously into the bedroom, eyes adjusting accordingly to the darkness. The bed is empty. The light switches on and Sherlock looks around. The bed is empty and several miscellaneous items belonging to John are gone. Sherlock stares at nothing for several moments and before he realizes it, his legs are moving and he is walking upstairs to John's old room.

Several more moments later, Sherlock is back in his bedroom, his, singular, and his chest feels like something tangible and extremely heavy is pressing down on it. Knuckles hit paint and plaster, a poorly suppressed groan slips past his lips, he doesn't do this out of anger, Sherlock does not lose control like this. No. He does this because the wall is the same color as the van that hit them on that day. He does this because this color now makes him nauseous. He does this because guilt is the most disgusting, vile thing he's ever felt, and now there is no going back.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: A Small Sacrifice Pt. 4

Pairing: Sherlock and John

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Rated: T

Notes: I was going to make this chapter M+ and add a tender love making scene, but decided against it. I don't like when stories start off T and under and suddenly are M+ rated without warning, didn't want to do that to you guys. This is the final chapter, so thank you all for being patient. Reviews are greatly appreciated! Love you~

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Sleepless nights pass, not many, but enough for observations to be made and conclusions to be had. He sits in the kitchen with the glass doors closed and listens, night after night. There is noise, whispers, movement, frustrated grunts, tired sighs, more whispers, and no sleep. For either of them.

John opens his door one morning to make his way to the loo when his foot knocks something over and there's a rattle. He looks down at a bottle of pills, picks it up, and reads the label.

"Melatonin." He offers a smile to the bottle, follows with setting his jaw and closing his eyes. Sherlock knows he hasn't been sleeping, probably doesn't know why, though. They've both come so accustom to sleeping together, holding each other in blissful warmth, soft worn pyjamas or sensitive nude flesh tangled in one another. He missed it, he did, but… Well, to be completely honest, he doesn't even know anymore. He never truly believed that Sherlock hated him or that he didn't deserve Sherlock, hell, if anyone deserved that mad man it was John and he'd have the whole world know it before anyone tried to put their hands on his bloke. John knows he doesn't want to be around Sherlock anymore, he doesn't know why, and he's tired of making up excuses. Being around Sherlock now, it just seemed so… depressing. Sherlock was beautiful and perfect, mind and body, John had a beautiful and perfect mind, he likes to believe, but his body was never really up to par. Now both his body and mind were damaged goods and sitting next to Sherlock he just felt so incredibly small and it hurt.

John stuffed the bottle of sleeping pills in his pocket and limped down the stairs to the bathroom.

:

Lestrade had sent Sherlock home early again. 'What's the point of having the world's most brilliant mind if it isn't focused and in the game?' he said. He almost received a loud and rebellious 'No! I refuse!' like the kind he used to (and still sometimes will) give Mycroft when the elder brother got a tad too bossy. It was still mid-day and going home was decidedly more uncomfortable in the decision department than he'd like it to be. Since John had gone back to his old room, Sherlock has been doing his best to keep himself in line, he's wanted to just snatch John by the shoulders and shake him senseless and kiss him beyond repair, but he knew that that would not be well received.

Sherlock sighed and opened the door to the sitting room. Unexpectedly, John was not in his chair reading, nor was he on the couch watching the telly, nor was he on his laptop doing whatever he does on his laptop. Sherlock shucked off his jacket and scarf, tossing them both on the nearest piece of furniture, and took a good look around. Nothing was out of place from when he left early in the morning. A wave of disappointment washed over him for no particular reason.

His legs began to move and soon he found himself in his bedroom where he had hoped to find a warm body waiting for him in bed. It was empty. Still. Still empty. Still cold. Still completely and entirely depressing. It shouldn't be, it's just a bed, it should technically be none of those things, but sadly, it is. How can one human do this to him? How can one human make him feel so worn and hurt just by not being as active in his life as was previously? It's never happened before, not in any sense of it, so it truly is just mind boggling.

And suddenly, Sherlock is very aware of how tired and lonely he is. Tired and lonely and tired of being lonely, he was sick of it, he wanted to feel John again, he wanted to hear John again, he wanted to tell John how much John's changed him and accepted him and loved him and tolerated him and didn't punch him even when he really deserved it, he wanted to tell John how happy he makes him, he wanted to tell John how sad he makes him, he wanted John to know all the things he makes him feel and how normally he'd hate it terribly, but it's okay because it's John making him feel these things and…

Sherlock takes in a shuddered breath and closes his eyes when he feels the tear pour over his lid and filter through his lashes. It's still such a foreign sensation.

All he was going to do when he got home was play around with how mercury affects plant growth when mixed into dirt and fertilizer, it was his first experiment since the accident, but no. No, he had to be so damn human and so bloody emotional all of a sudden and, oh, look, now he's running up the stairs to John's room. Lovely.

He didn't know what he was going to do when he entered the room, no speech was prepared, nothing had been planned, Sherlock just needed to be near John, that's all he knew.

The knob turned slowly, the door opening about a foot wide, Sherlock couldn't hear anything past the hammering of his pulse in his ears. John's room was nearly pitch black, the windows had been covered with something thicker, he couldn't make out what yet, though. He could see the blue glow of the alarm clock emit from behind John's silhouetted head, John was facing him, but thankfully asleep. Sherlock could also make out the pill bottle on the nightstand next to the clock, with it, he let out a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders and back. John could finally catch up on sleep now, Sherlock was thankful that John took the pills. No matter how upset he was that any of this was happening, he was still worried sick that John hadn't been sleeping. John wasn't like Sherlock, he needed his sleep to function properly and he knew it.

Entering the room, Sherlock toed his shoes off next to the door as he closed it behind him. His belt slid off slowly and was carefully placed with the shoes. He pulls his shirt out from his pants as he steps up to John's bedside and John really is a handsome man. Blue light hits all the little curves and wrinkles of the side of his head, his ear and hair textured with the blue, his face shadowed, but not unseeable. Sherlock lowers himself gently, making sure not to disturb John's slumber, his eyes never left the peaceful face. The bed is low enough that while he sits on his bum, he could fold his arms up on the edge and rest his head comfortably without having to adjust for his height.

He watches John sleep in silence and at some point, before following suit, their fingers entwine.

It's the happiest Sherlock has been in weeks.

:

"Love… Love, get up." A warm hand rests in Sherlock's tangled mess. Fingers rub minutely at his scalp and he moans, leaning into the touch. Eyelashes flutter, the light from the lamp stings, Sherlock has no idea how long he's been asleep. Slowly, he tilts his head up, the hand on his head falling to cup his cheek. John looks so sad. Sad and confused. Sad and hurt. Sad and happy. So many emotions all in one expression and Sherlock could see them all so plainly.

John began to scoot away, pulling Sherlock's hand to follow. As Sherlock slid in under the covers, he felt all of his tension slip away completely. For the first time in weeks, he was in a warm bed with the man he loved in his arms. Destiny and fate do not exist, he knows this in his core, but Sherlock can't help but feel that this is the way it should be, that this is how his life is meant to be spent for the rest of its days.

Fingers traced paths over Sherlock's cheek, down his jaw, knuckles grazed over his neck and behind his ears. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose. He had never been so relieved to feel another person's hands on him in his life. Sherlock opened his eyes again, gazing back into John's. John took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Sherlog, this was all so damn gonfusing and frustrating, I just didn't know what to do with myself. I never meant to tage it out on you. I was embarrassed and I'm sorry, I really am." Sherlock let out a breathy laugh in surprise and drew his eyebrows together.

"No, John, I thought you were mad at me. It was the only logical conclusion I could come to, you blamed me fo- Wait, what? John… John you jus- _What was that_?" John couldn't decide if he should hide his face or grin proudly, so he did both.

"Tha- oh. Um. I haven't been sleeping, so I've been trying to figure out ways around the sound. I've replaced the sound with 'g' and for the most part, it worgs. Still sounds a tad funny, though, but it… Yeah… I thing after some time, I might be able to go bag to normal. I don't want to talg in publig yet, though." Sherlock stared at the man averting his gaze in awe.

He replaced the sound with 'g'.

_He replaced. The sound. With 'g'._

"You… Are… _Brilliant!" _Sherlock flopped around on his back and slapped both hands over his face, letting out a loud groan that translated into 'Holy shit balls I am such an idiot'. "How did neither of us come up with this before!? How could we be so stupid!?"

"We? I was the one that game up with it, don't drag me down to your level." Sherlock snapped his head around to give John an incredulous look. John's lifted eyebrows and horribly held back smile made him completely drop all seriousness in that moment and together, they snorted and laughed harder than they've laughed in a very… Very long time. They faced each other, foreheads pressed together as they shook with giggles.

"N-no, right- You _absolutely_ must take the credit for this one, my apolo-"

If there was one thing about John that he honestly couldn't make his mind up on, it was if he liked or disliked how often John shut him up mid-sentence with a kiss. He disliked it because of how often this happened and because most of the time, Sherlock was actually saying something really interesting that he wanted John to know. On the other hand, he wasn't really saying anything at all, just rambling in an awkward situation or listing off random things in uncomfortable silences, in which case he wholeheartedly thanked John for shutting him up. This was an example of the later.

A hand, that fantastic, talented, warm hand, slid around the side of his neck to the back of his neck, leaving a ghost of a warm trail behind it, to tangle it's fingers in his dark curls, pulling him further into the kiss. It was a firm kiss, not sloppy or heady, just a firm reminder of what they are and what they've been missing. Their lips glided against each other slowly, pressing and sucking perfect kisses. John pressed forward, hand moving from Sherlock's neck to his shoulder, turning Sherlock on his back while he propped himself up on his elbow over Sherlock's head. Fingers teased at bouncy curls and a flat palm roamed over a broad rising chest. Sherlock felt a weight in his stomach and a tightness in his diaphragm, his lungs felt muted and his body trembled, screaming for more.

Only John could ever make him feel like this. Only John.

And it was so absolutely perfect.

:

At some point before being fully unclothed, Sherlock had asked John if they could go back to their room, it hadn't felt right doing something so _them _in a room that wasn't _theirs. _And of course John had smiled and agreed after calling him a sentimental twat.

The warm tones of the sunrise pour through the window, now. Sherlock watches John sleep, he knows his lover is going to wake up soon, but this was always his favorite part after a night of 'love making', as they call it. The room fills with orange and pink hues and John's nude body is doused in the beautiful radiance. He lets his hand wander down from John's chest to his belly lazily, pulling the covers up just a bit so John doesn't feel too self-conscious when he wakes up. He always does that, wakes up and pulls the covers over him when he sees Sherlock watching him, chuckling nervously like it will hide his blush. John isn't as firm as he used to be, he hasn't gone soft, though, but it's enough to make him feel not his best. Sherlock always thought that was silly, he absolutely adores John's body and flesh, yes it is just transport for the brain, but John's was so much more than that. He never bothered putting into words just how magnificent John's body or mind is to him, that would take away the wonder of it all.

He replaced the sound with 'g'.

Sherlock grinned brightly and rolled his eyes.

He will grant John one definition, though: a very brilliant prat of a man.


End file.
